


Silvitni

by Ulfrsmal



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Old Norse, Polyamory, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, hints of spice, nobody is drunk, poetic prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulfrsmal/pseuds/Ulfrsmal
Summary: Uhtred’s night out with his favourite boys was already a soft-hearted experience for them all; and yet it soon gets even tenderer, quickly developing into the perfect opportunity to feel his two greatest loves by his side, as ever-present and loyal towards him as Uhtred is towards them.
Relationships: Finan/Sihtric/Uhtred of Bebbanburg
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17





	Silvitni

**Author's Note:**

> The title is [a song by Eivør](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wa7zAIn7sbw); it means “Dead Calm” in Faroese.
> 
> TW: alcohol (mead), references to Uhtred and Finan being capive aboard the Trader.
> 
> The words not in English are translated in the End Notes.
> 
> This is completely unedited… feel free to point out any mistakes you find. Extra thanks to my New Friends for motivating me to write this OT3! :D

The taste of mead lingers in his mouth long after the weak drink has gone down his throat, burning him from the inside out with the same delicacy as Finan’s poorly-timed joke. Uhtred almost cannot prevent himself from choking on the aftertaste clinging to his palate; thankfully, Sihtric’s hand appears at his back, right between his shoulder-blades, reassuring and warm even through Uhtred’s undershirt. He gives the attentive boy a smile and a faint nod to show his thanks. Sihtric smiles right back at him, regaling Uhtred and Finan alike with one of his charming looks.

Uhtred’s heart skips a beat at the entrancing way the mead-house’s dimmed light reflects off Sihtric’s eyes, illuminating his irises sideways. It darkens the brilliant brown at the right side of his face until it shines almost charcoal-black, the blown pupil virtually indistinguishable from the iris. Uhtred would get lost in its enticing darkness; but how could he do so, when Sihtric turns his head slightly away from Uhtred, to speak to Finan?

The motion does naught but highlight the boy’s left eye; the swaying candlelight has turned its light-blue hue into a deeper shade. It almost reminds Uhtred of the stormy oceans he and Finan sailed across while captured aboard the _Trader_ – yet Sihtric is much too gentle to embody any of those tempests, Uhtred knows. And, judging from the hooded look Finan gives him over the edge of his mead-cup, he’s thinking something along those very same lines.

Ever-observant, Sihtric seems to sense the slight change in his two companions’ mood; he’s quick to set his own cup in the table in front of them to free both his hands. A warm palm descends on Finan’s thigh, not so high up that someone could grow suspicious and call him out on his shamelessness, but still a tad too away from his knee to be purely platonic. Finan’s lips part under the touch; his expression reminds Uhtred of a deer caught in front of a nocked arrow, ready to bolt away at any given moment. Aiming to soothe the worries that his Irishman is undoubtedly suffering, Uhtred hums a low note to signal his approval of Sihtric’s actions.

The boy blushes, although perhaps it’s only due to the cup of mead he’s already drunk, instantly growing shyer under Uhtred’s gaze. His right hand stays suspended mid-air, halfway across its path towards Uhtred’s thigh, where it should’ve already arrived to mirror the one leant on Finan’s own. The Irishman lets out a chuckle that must be one of the sweetest melodies Uhtred has ever had the pleasure of listening to; then, he loops an arm around Sihtric’s slim shoulders, pulling the boy more firmly against his side.

“Oi, don’t hoard him!” Uhtred half-groans, half-whines, fruitlessly trying to bat Finan’s hand away – _Gods_ , not even Lady Freyja herself could match the beautiful sight of Sihtric reaching out, opening his arms to invite Uhtred in. “Well, if you insist…”

“I do insist.” Sihtric’s English is more accented than his usual Danish lilt, probably due to how comfortable he seems to be when lying against Finan’s torso, watching Uhtred scurry over in the low bench to join them. “This is our night out, so let’s enjoy it fully!”

“Oh, I’m enjoyin’ myself right now.” Uhtred smiles, chuckling at Finan’s teasing tone; he immediately realises he must lean in to kiss Sihtric’s matching smile right off his angular, good-looking face.

Before he can press his lips against the boy’s, though, he’s halted by someone’s bellowing voice coming from the other end of the mead-house. Finan has jumped in his seat at the sheer volume, because he’s too used to being constantly watched and analysed and so his hair always stands on end at anything that sounds too much like the cruel crack of an unforgiving whip. Uhtred can hardly blame him, although his own reaction is less pronounced.

“Clapa just had too much mead and fell on his arse.” Somehow, Sihtric’s managed to loop an arm around Finan’s neck and curl the other around Uhtred’s waist. The Lord would be impressed if he weren’t so aware of how the longest locks of his hair insist on brushing against Sihtric’s bare wrist. “I bet he’ll sleep it off right there, too.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Uhtred forces himself to mumble; each word comes out strained even to his own ears. He can only pray that his two loves’ hearings aren’t nearly as good as Höðr’s, for the Blind God is sure to have his other senses heightened.

Sihtric’s hand shifts on his waist, drawing closer to the hem of his undershirt, there where it rests bunched up at his trousers’ edge. Uhtred swallows saliva only because his mead-cup is empty. Sihtric definitely notices it, for the boy’s keen senses very rarely let anything go unnoticed, but doesn’t mention it aloud. Finan’s gaze darts around the room, making sure that no one is staring at their huddled forms in their secluded corner; then he bows his head and kisses Sihtric’s head.

Sihtric shivers deliciously in his arms, his smile growing wider and more brilliant. It’s only then that Uhtred realises both that Finan was the first to kiss their boy tonight, and that his kiss fell on Sihtric’s hairline, right at the limit between his close-shaved scalp and the mess of dark curls bouncing in time with his faint shivering. Try as Uhtred may, he cannot find it in himself to look around as cautiously as Finan did before leaning in to press his lips against Sihtric’s in what must be the most chaste touch he’s ever given to any of his past partners.

Sihtric returns the kiss with one of his own, although he’s coyer. Finan hums as if he regrets not having tasted their boy before Uhtred had a chance of spreading the taste of his own mead all over Sihtric’s palate. When Uhtred pulls away, he locks his gaze with Finan’s and makes a show of licking his lips. It’d usually be quite the seductive gesture, one betraying how he’d like the night to end; now, though, he’s so relaxed from the drinks and from his loves that he only earns himself an Irish eye-roll.

“Now _who_ is hoarding him…” Finan grumbles, more to keep the teasing up than because he truly feels left out. Still, Sihtric is quick to twist in place, keeping the hand on Uhtred’s waist curled around his bunched-up undershirt. The boy hesitates for a moment, looking like he’d rather take another sweeping glance at the room; and that’s the precise instant in which Uhtred knows Finan’s patience has been cut short, “Come here already, you Heathen tease!”

Thankfully, Sihtric doesn’t waver this time; he simply moves forward and tilts his head to one side to kiss Finan properly. Uhtred would lean back to enjoy such an explicit, unambiguous display of affection between the two men he loves the most in the entirety of _Miðgarðr’s_ fair lands; his attention, however, cannot focus on anything other than how Sihtric keeps pulling at his undershirt. He knows perfectly well that the touch is innocent, not meant to provoke him into action, because they’ve already decided that tonight will end in a pile of limbs and warm cuddling, but there’s just something precious about how Sihtric has to always be holding on to both of them.

When Sihtric lets Finan go, the Irishman isn’t shy about keeping him pressed to his chest tightly enough to make Sihtric whine. Uhtred leans forward and towards them, not wanting Sihtric to feel bad for having had to let go of him in favour of being physically closer to Finan; and that, combined with Sihtric’s hand flying higher than his waist, soon prompts Uhtred to growl.

“Told you it was a bad idea to keep your hair loose.” Finan admonishes him with the same stern, yet fond, tone of voice that any self-respecting mother-hen would use on her children. He reaches around Sihtric’s head as it turns to look at Uhtred, and delicately soothes the sting at the top of Uhtred’s head. “I knew you’d end up with it wet from mead or accidentally pulled.”

“Not that I complain about it…” Uhtred replies easily; the words simply fly out of his mouth with the practised ease of someone who's done his fair share of seduction. If he leans in to Finan’s touch, though, well. Nobody has to know other than himself and his two loves. “But our boy usually plays nicer.”

“Sorry, Lord…” To his credit, Sihtric appears truly full of repentance; or rather, he did until that damned smirk appeared on his face. It overtakes his factions slowly, for everything about this boy happens either too slow or too fast, his eyes narrowing in time with his bright laughter. Uhtred groans and kisses it right off his face, swallowing the last remnants of Sihtric’s giggling, “Guess I just kissed it better…”

“Cheeky.” Finan gives Sihtric’s head another fleeting kiss before he turns his full attention to Uhtred, who is still staring at them with a soft smile on his face. The somehow still-glowing candles’ light tint Finan's warm irises with an even kinder gleam, their colour going from the deepest black at the pupil to the most intense brown Uhtred has ever seen. For a moment, the knowledge that such a magnificent gaze is dedicated all to himself is enough to halt his words and breath across his throat. “And you, come here. If you’re too drunk to braid your own goddamn hair, I’ll have to do it for you.”

Uhtred wants to retort something quick, something clever, something to pretend that he’s not as petrified as he feels – Gods and Goddesses high in _Ásgarðr_ , his heartbeat both stops and picks up at the knowing smirk Sihtric throws his way… For such a usually self-contained boy, he’s quite loosened up now; most likely due to Finan’s comforting warmth at his back and Uhtred’s cosy disarray at his front.

“What disaster do you want to give me?”

Finan sputters on some well-chosen Gaelic that he knows neither Uhtred or Sihtric can understand; he wavers in place like he doesn’t quite know whether to strangle their irreverent Lord or kiss him until his lungs give out.

In the end, Sihtric makes the decision for him; he slithers out of Finan’s grasp and uses those feline reflexes of his to vault over the table without disturbing a single mead-drop out of Finan’s half-empty cup. Uhtred hears the sharp intake of breath signalling what exactly the Irishman thinks of Sihtric’s antics, but doesn’t chance to look at him; he is much more distracted by how the boy’s body undulates as he rounds the table to sit at Uhtred’s other side, effectively trapping him in between Sihtric’s own body and Finan’s announced intentions.

“Take my old seat, Lord.” Sihtric’s voice sounds softer in his mother tongue than it does in English, Uhtred realises with only the faintest of blushes. He doesn’t feel brave enough to check if Finan agrees, “I’ll take yours for now.”

“Yes, _for now_ , because you’re not fleeing again without braids.” Finan’s sudden declaration makes Uhtred exchange a pointed look with Sihtric; neither had realised that Finan could understand the Norse tongue to this extent, for he cannot speak a single word of it. Uhtred and Sihtric alike break into giggles at the same time, much to Finan’s fond exasperation. “Oh, curse the day the Good God dropped both of you on my lap…”

“I don’t know, you seemed ready to catch me.” Uhtred undulates his tone as much as his lungs’ capacity allows him to, aiming at riling Finan up with his own English just as much as Sihtric riled Uhtred up with their shared mother tongue. “And you also caught our boy really quickly.”

“Shut up!” Sihtric cannot stop laughing at Finan’s indignant tone; it only prompts their Irishman to launch himself into another Gaelic tirade. Perhaps to further evidence his annoyance at their sweet, and probably mead-induced, antics, Finan grabs at Uhtred’s torso and arms until he can position him astride the low bench, manoeuvring him without a single care until Sihtric can look their Lord in the eye. “And don’t move!”

“ _Reiðr_.” Uhtred accuses him in his and Sihtric’s shared language; the boy giggles, his head rolling forward until some of his locks fall over his shaved side. The effect does little to soften all the marked angles of his factions, much as his curls insist on caressing the high arch of his cheekbone. Uhtred brushes them away before Sihtric has time to even complain about them getting into his beautiful eyes, “Don’t you agree, _ástin mínn?_ ”

Sihtric leans into his hand and hums his agreement; Uhtred cannot help but stare at how his Adam’s apple ebbs in time with their boy’s free laughter. It feels liberating to witness Sihtric being so incredibly relaxed; the Gods know he’s been through too much already, despite his younger age relative to both Uhtred’s and Finan’s own. He deserves to have all the downtime he could ever ask for, and as many soft kisses as they could give him. Behind him, Finan curses just as softly as the candlelight’s effect is on Sihtric’s eyes.

“How bad is it without a hair-comb?” Uhtred asks to Finan, although he winks at Sihtric at the same time. Their boy barely has enough time to respond to the veiled tease before Finan grumbles something that neither man catch, “Sorry, what was that? Speak up, _lipur_ Irishman _mínn_.”

“Do I even want to know what you called me?” Finan’s fingers slide quick through Uhtred’s hair, as agile as the improvised hairdresser’s moniker.

“It’s not bad.” Sihtric supplies, trying to placate Finan into not tearing Uhtred’s hair from the roots; it’s well-known that, although he’s usually very cautious and gentle, all of Finan’s delicacy flies out the window when he’s on his way to drunkenness. Uhtred brings a finger to his lips before Sihtric can ask him if he’s allowed to translate the Norse words into English for Finan’s sake, “… trust me. It’s not bad.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I should trust you two or _naaahhh_.” Finan draws that last vowel out until his voice grows raspy; only then does he let go of the sustained note to try and clear his throat. “Damnit… Sihtric, _a stór_ , hold this for me.”

“Do I even want to know what you called me?” Sihtric teases him, a sly grin on his face; Uhtred is instantly reminded of the round tomcat who had once managed to steal Hild’s cream from her windowsill. She had never left anything outside to cool again.

Finan must surely be about ready to protest anew, so Sihtric moves closer, until he can reach around Uhtred to the crown of his head. Finan gives him the thick braid he’d been holding until them, their fingers touching and making them both smile, although Uhtred can only see their boy's grin. The braid Finan has just worked is born from the edges of Uhtred’s shaved, left side; they have no leather-bands at hand, so Finan had to either leave it hanging and risk it coming undone, or give it to Sihtric to hold while he works at Uhtred’s right side. Their Lord whines when his hair tangles in Finan’s fingers, curling around them with the same brand of slight possessiveness that Uhtred himself exhibits from time to time.

Sihtric emits a tiny sound from the back of his throat. Uhtred’s gaze falls on him, and he immediately blushes more.

They’re almost close enough to kiss. Sihtric’s eyes look especially enticing from up close, Uhtred realises with naught to show for it but the way in which his lips part on instinct, desiring to be kissed. He can see Sihtric’s gaze flickering down, too; their boy is attuned to their needs already, and so attentive that Uhtred knows it makes Finan’s heart ache sweetly whenever he thinks about it for too long. Sihtric’s back is arched towards Uhtred, too; it would be extremely easy for him to lean in and touch his lips to Uhtred’s.

And yet Sihtric obediently keeps holding his hair with all the delicacy that’s flown out of Finan.

Still, Uhtred cannot be too disappointed; not when his two loves’ touches contrast so nicely, for can barely feel Sihtric’s, whereas he’s ever-aware of Finan twisting his dark locks close to his scalp, working his way down the crown of Uhtred’s head. He soon tells Sihtric to hand him the braid he’d previously worked into Uhtred’s hair; then he starts to interweave them, so they hang down the middle. Uhtred sighs almost too low to be heard over the mead-house’s general chatter at how Finan spreads the straight layer underneath the by-now thick braid, seemingly deeming his work done.

“There you go.” Finan declares, sounding decidedly calmer than before. He takes Uhtred’s hand in his and guides it so that their Lord can feel the hairstyle; Uhtred can focus only in how warm his own skin feels in comparison with Finan’s. Their Irishman gets so cold so easily…

“This is not what you gave me back in the _Trader_.” Uhtred protests when his fingertips run down the length of the braid.

“Well, back then you hadn’t shaved half your head like a fucking sheep!” Finan replies airily.

Sihtric laughs and lurches forward to swallow whatever retort Uhtred was about to make to that. The contact lasts for a mere moment, because people are shifting out of the mead-house due to the hour getting late, and curiously Sihtric is the only one of them who still has some decency left in him, mead or no mead warming him from the inside out. Uhtred whines when he feels their boy part from him, his hands already going up to Sihtric’s neck to keep him in place for a while longer.

“Is it my turn now, Finan?” Sihtric asks, smoothly avoiding Uhtred’s hands at the same time. The sly bastard… Uhtred can feel his mind’s cogs turning, trying to come up with a plan to trap Sihtric right in between his and Finan’s bodies; let’s see if this slithery boy even _wants_ to evade their touch then!

“You?” Finan’s arms encircle Uhtred’s waist and recline him backwards, his back pressed tightly against Finan’s chest. Their Lord tries to protest being moved further away from Sihtric, but Finan’s voice drowns his whines out, “Look at you! Your hair’s still too damn _short!_ ”

“You said you’d braid mine too!” Sihtric pouts only slightly, because he knows perfectly well exactly how weak Finan is for it.

Uhtred leans a hand over their Irishman’s forearm and feels him tremble; Sihtric’s pleased grin tells him that he, too, has seen Finan shivering. As always. Their boy’s innate skill for watching over everything without ever being caught staring is uncanny, much as it comes in handy in his current line of work.

“I believe you told me I wouldn’t be…” Sihtric cocks his head to one side as if trying hard to remember the exact words. Uhtred snickers; he can already tell that it’s just for show. Sihtric most likely memorised the sentence the first time he heard it. “… fleeing again without braids.”

“Well, then, you know what to _not_ do!” Finan declares, extending his right arm towards him. Uhtred mirrors the gesture on the left, forming a cosy cage in the middle of which to place Sihtric in before embracing him tight. “Until your hair is long enough to braid again, you cannot flee from us!”

“Alright.” Sihtric answers easily, already starting to lean in to them. Uhtred moves his raised hand to halt him, “Yes, Lord?”

“Swear it. Swear to us that you won’t run away.”

For a split second, Sihtric looks almost offended and profoundly wounded that this is even being asked of him. Uhtred’s heart shrinks painfully tight within his chest; he knows the demand is not a fair one, for Sihtric has never been anything except for loyal and accepting of both Finan and Uhtred himself. The mere fact that he asked it to Sihtric without swearing it himself first, or demanding Finan do the same, must undoubtedly be what cuts through Sihtric’s heart the sharpest.

“I swear I won’t run away from either of you.” Sihtric’s tone is as solemn as his gaze, which goes from Uhtred to Finan as he speaks.

“I swear I won’t abandon either of you.” Surprisingly, Finan is the next to speak. Uhtred’s mouth goes dry.

When his two loves centre their gazes on him, however, he instantly knows what to say.

“I swear I will stay by both your sides until _Valhöll_ calls, and beyond.”

Finan is upon his lips in a moment, capturing them with all the passion he doesn’t dare set free; and, when Sihtric leans in to kiss first Uhtred, and then Finan, with the same passionate loyalty, their hearts beat as one.

**Author's Note:**

> Höðr is a Norse God, son of Odin. He was tricked by Loki and involuntarily killed Baldr (the God of Light, brother to Höðr); that’s why Vali (another son of Odin) killed Höðr. The whole story is in the [Gylfaginning part of the Prose Edda](https://is.cuni.cz/studium/predmety/index.php?do=download&did=62028&kod=ARL100252).
> 
> Miðgarðr literally means “middle earth” in Old Norse. It’s one of the Nine Realms: the one where humans live.
> 
> Ásgarðr literally means “Enclosure of the Aesir” in Old Norse. The Aesir are one of the two clans the Gods are divided into; Ásgarðr is one of the Nine Realms: the one where the Gods live.
> 
> Reiðr means “angry” in Old Norse; it’s the closest word to “cranky” I could find.
> 
> Ástin mínn means “my love” in Old Norse (and in modern Icelandic).
> 
> Lipur [einn] mínn means “my agile [one]” in (modern) Icelandic. I couldn’t find a reliable translation of “agile” in Old Norse…
> 
> A stór means “darling” in (modern) Irish. The only Gaelic translator I could find was (modern) Scottish…
> 
> Valhöll means “Valhalla” in Old Norse; it means “Hall of the Slain”.


End file.
